


It's Not Easy To Be Me

by IuvenesCor



Category: White Collar
Genre: "Wanted" tag, AU(ish), Gen, Just a name..., Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Neal Caffrey</em>- noun, proper name. A conman. A romantic. An artist.</p>
<p>A lie?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Easy To Be Me

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New-Episode-Of-White-Collar day! ^_^
> 
> Much thanks to **truthtakestime** for (1) being my ever-faithful beta and sounding board, (2) coming up with this drabble's summary, and (3) giving me the inspiration for this. She proposed to me the theory that Neal hasn't always been Neal, which is a thought that for some reason explodes my mind (and is something I needed to write about, even at one a.m.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own White Collar, nor am I affiliated with it. If I were, I think I would have exploded with happiness by now. :P

The thoughts, the memories, the questions and their tentative answers — they'd always pestered him every now and again. 

Now was that time where they reared their more or less ugly heads.

Running, again. Six weeks ago he thought he was done. Could _swear_ he was done with hiding, escaping, being...afraid.

Then he had to run.

Just days ago, he'd come back to that security of freedom. No looking over the shoulder, no need for destroying evidence of past or present — or even future. Living in a paradise where one could feel like nothing could ever touch them.

And then again, there was now. Escaping what should have been the perfect place to finish one’s story. Leaving what had begun to be as close to perfection as one so tarnished as him could attain. That was the end of James Maine. The end of the hope for future nights with Maya; the end of a good deal of his faith in ever finding refuge. Another life he'd tried to build, destroyed. And standing in Dobbs' island villa, waiting with bated breath, he realized – _remembered_ – what it was that had ruined it all. He could do nothing now but blame the epicenter of his misfortune.

Neal Caffrey.

He'd begun to think of himself as one with this mask of a name, of a man, of a life. Many times, his mind would slip and say "Good going, _Neal_ ", or "What were you thinking, _Neal_?", or even "This is home, _Neal_." He'd heard the name, the one that he’d one day decided sounded worthy enough to stand by, come from so many lips – some welcome, some not – that he'd let himself merge with the moniker willingly, easily. Forgot anything of the past for a moment, and lived to the fullest as Neal. Not anyone else, but this one man.

Yet it was harmful – capable of destroying him. This name was tied to so many lies, entwined with so much wrong and shame and even _death_. He'd hated himself for letting it come to something so monstrous. The name could have been just another George Donnelly, another Steve Tabernacle – and even now, another James Maine. He could leave it behind like he left them behind...but he'd let himself become too familiar with it. It could never be taken off of his living record, even if heaven and earth were moved.

It was like his fedoras. All it took was one test, and soon there formed a sort of staple of his living. He could choose to take them off, never wear those hats again... But even if he would, it would still follow him. _Be_ him, in a way. He hardly could see himself without having that piece of familiarity on his head. It made him – rather, made _Neal_ – who he was.

And that was the same with the name. No one could rightfully identify him without his accessory – the name Neal Caffrey. It was infamous now. It was sewn to his tongue, tattooed on his face, branded in his soul. No matter what imaginary man's life and legacy he took on, he would forever be _this_ man, in the indelible memories of the mind.

He was unable to escape the gyves of his identity. He was stranded with no choice. 

Such an innocent name provoked memories of bad – Adler, Kate's death, Keller, Kramer. It also surfaced memories of wonderful things, however – Peter and El, Mozzie, Sara...everyone. Most of all, he couldn’t forget the beauty of New York, and knowing that he once had a home – a _permanent_ one. But the good things, and the inevitable escape from them, stung too much. And the bad and the horrible could never have a blind eye turned to them.

_Neal Caffrey_. The words that should have meant nothing – they meant everything. They were him...he _was_ Neal.

But still, deep in the records of truth, he wasn't. He was almost a paradox, really. Schrödinger’s _man_ , perhaps: real, living, breathing, but not a true existence. True, no deadly gases or boxes or felines were involved, but his life did feel like an experiment – a test of the search for normalcy. 

Regardless of the truth, he wanted to think that ‘Neal’ never lived. After all, Neal Caffrey was a metaphorical ghost. A figment that could appear one moment and be gone in a blink. He _did not exist_. The man who played him often found himself earnestly wishing he never made it seem like he did. Then again, the felon was glad he had become this new identity, even when he knew it was foolish to accept such a binding prison. The indecision – enjoy the pleasures, or despise the evils (he couldn’t very well choose both, as the balances were tipped far beyond justice) – haunted him. 

The most distressing facet of this whole deception he’d called his life was that almost no one knew. Mozzie had expected the truth without even having to be told – but yet, he didn’t truly _know_. Ellen knew, but even she called him Neal. His parents, his extended family, a chance handful of old faces that may or may not have remembered him. Those were all that knew...and not many of them likely cared much.

The only one who knew, who truly cared in the end – who lived and breathed and drank and ate and smiled and laughed and bled and cried and existed purely as Neal – was Neal. He was the one person who carried his burden. He was the criminal who had abandoned his true self to put on another facade. The once innocent young man who no longer, in the grand practical joke of life, existed. A paper in the flames. A sand castle against the violence of the waves.

The man who was nothing more than a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> (Alright, now go read truthtakestime's drabble "Some Nights." It's sort of what inspired this, and it really is quite lovely. :D)


End file.
